


the call of a stone heart

by hoppnhorn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher, Blood, M/M, Magic healing nonsense, Major Character Injury, monsters i made up, please don't call me on it, this is all just nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22204780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: For years, it’s just the two of them. Steven the bard following William the Witcher into the darkest of places to hunt the worst beasts of the Continent. But to hear Steven sing it, their adventures are full of romance and drama.Mostly, their quests result in Billy being thrashed around by a monster while Steven feebly attempts to draw its attention.And it’s no different when they arrive in Kaedwen to kill a shrike.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 16
Kudos: 224
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	the call of a stone heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazyBaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/gifts).



It starts out simply enough. 

“I think I’ll call you William the Witcher.”

A bard follows him out of a bar, yapping out adventure and the need for more material for _songs_ and, really, he’s had just about enough and his horse isn’t even saddled properly yet. 

“Don’t call me William.” Billy grumbles. Not that _Billy_ is an altogether spectacular name for someone in his profession, but it’s not the name his father picked out for him and that’s what counts. 

“What, you think _Willy_ is better?” The bard is grinning when Billy turns around, shoots him a withering stare. At least, it would wither _most_ people. But this particular bard isn’t really intimidated by anything that Billy shoots at him. Insults. Stares. Angry grunts.

He’s oblivious to it all. And that’s exactly how it begins. 

  
  


For years, it’s just the two of them. Steven the bard following William the Witcher into the darkest of places to hunt the worst beasts of the Continent. But to hear Steven sing it, their adventures are full of romance and drama.

Mostly, their quests result in Billy being thrashed around by a monster while Steven feebly attempts to draw its attention.

And it’s no different when they arrive in Kaedwen to kill a shrike. 

A fully-grown shrike, if Billy had to guess. People have been found in pieces for weeks and nothing cuts through human bone like the razor sharp limbs of shrike. 

He’s hoping it’s only one with all the bodies he’s seen lining graves. 

_“William the Witcher, bound for adventure…”_ Steven plucks at his lute and Billy grinds his molars to keep from screaming. 

“Quiet, or you’ll get us both killed.” He grunts, steering his trusty mare into the thick of the woods. Shrikes can hide well in the long, dark branches of a dormant forest. It wouldn’t shock Billy if the thing caught most of its prey in the guise of a harmless tree. 

“Oh quit your _groaning_ .” Steven mutters. “You’ll thank me when people hear this song and _praise your name_.” He strums a loud chord with a cocky grin. “Folk will be crying for your help all over the Continent.” 

“I said _quiet_.” Billy growls. “You won’t be writing anymore songs if you’re dead.”

And it wouldn’t be the first time he threatened the same fate, but Steven doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. Though, he pushes his lute over his shoulder, which was more of a surrender than Billy had ever expected. 

Steven had once composed a whole fucking _song_ while Billy had been in the belly of a Selkie Maw. Just strumming uselessly on the shore, waiting for the Witcher without a single doubt that he’d return from the depths.

The _least_ Billy had hoped for was warm socks.

“I’m stealthy, Billy. More than you give me _credit_.” The bard grouses as they trudge on through the trees. “Remember that time in—”

“You have to have sense to have stealth.”

“Yes, yes.” Steven mocks with _at last_ a quieter voice. “Typical insult defense from _Billy_ the Bitcher.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Pray tell, what _exactly_ am I allowed to call you?” 

“I’d settle for silence.” Billy counters with a hiss. And, blessedly, he’s rewarded with such. Haunted quiet, trampled only by the sound of his own shoes in the dirt.

It’s almost worth smiling about.

“...Billy…” 

Shooting a glance back at Steven, he sighs in frustration, ready to launch into a _rant_ about _why_ the shrike has so successfully managed to murder a fourth of the town.

The bard doesn’t seem to need much of an explanation, however, as the sharp limb of the shrike in question retreats from deep in Steven’s chest. 

“Fuck!” Billy growls, jumping from his horse as the shrike darts from the bard, leaving him to crumple into a heap on the ground. The Witcher dives for his friend, his hands slick with blood in a matter of moments. “Why are you always so _loud_ ?” He asks, half in anger and half in _horror_ as Steven clutches at his arms, croaking wet against his neck. “Goddamn it, Steven.” The bard is going to be a bitch to carry but Billy’s hauled his ass out of worse. 

The shrike will have to wait, with the rate Steven continues to bleed all over his hands. After he finds a _fucking_ mage, he’ll come back and rip the thing apart.

“Billy…” Steven gasps, warm blood flecking Billy’s jaw and cheek as the bard gags for air. 

“Don’t try and talk—”

“Behind…”

His sword is too long to pull from its scabbard in time, and Billy knows how little time he _has_ when he sees the size of Steven’s eyes. And hears his horse scream. 

The blow hits him square in the back, sending him across the clearing into the thick trunk of a tree with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Billy grunts, his ribs aching as he rolls in the dirt, thrusts out a hand just in time to stop the shrike mid-charge and send it flying backwards. The great creature falls, its black body hitting the ground with such weight Billy feels the earth shake -- but it isn’t stunned by his magic for long. It only takes a few moments for it to lift its thorny head and stand. 

But by then Billy has his sword, in his palm and at the ready, and a fresh potion rushing into his veins. He can already feel his senses sharpening. Time seems to slow as his consciousness shifts, the benefits of his mutation and the magic in his trusty elixirs giving him awareness beyond human. Resilience beyond mortal.

He stands, waiting. Watching the monster dig it’s pointed limbs into the soft dirt to pull itself forward in a run. Billy lets himself grin. He didn’t train for years for nothing. His skills are that of a centuries-old warrior without fear. Smooth and calculated as if fighting were a dance and he a dancer. 

Very rarely is he equally matched in sword combat. By man or monster.

The shrike charges, and just as rapidly falls in pieces; it fights with vigor until Billy removes its head, his blood pumping through his veins until he can hear it in his ears. 

Along with wheezing gasps. 

“ _Fuck_.” Billy hisses before he’s running for Steven, on the ground in a heap. Nearly dead, apart from the thick sounds of his choking for air. 

“Stay alive, bard.” He growls at his companion, hoisting him into his arms. “I was just getting used to your _voice_.” 

  
  


The house of the village mage is _thankfully_ one of the places in town that stands out from the rest. With obvious nonsense in windows. Too many plants in the garden. And the woman answers quickly, again thankfully, when Billy all but busts her door down and carries Steven -uninvited- over the threshold. 

“Good evening to you too, I suppose.” The mage mutters offhandedly as Billy clears a table with one arm and lies Steve atop the surface with the other. “You know, I was _eating_ that—”

“He’s _dying_ .” Billy snarls, throwing his coin purse at her without care that he is _definitely_ being rude and probably overpaying for the skills of some small-town mage. “Save him.”

The woman’s demeanor softens as she leans over Steven’s body, sniffs before she turns towards her supplies. Bottles of herbs and liquids, all arranged neatly on shelves. 

“What stabbed him?” She asks quickly. 

“A shrike.” Steven’s eyes droop too far to closed and Billy smacks his cheek, mutters a warning under his breath. His fingers linger on the bard’s pale face as they share a glance. A silent exchange of strength.

“Hand me that.” The woman instructs, pointing to a bone on a shelf. “It’s lucky I’m not some useless old healer.” She mutters as Billy hands over the bone and she immediately snaps it in half. Sticks the tip of a blade into the marrow. “Shrikes are magical, no ordinary healing would stop this stab wound from worsening.” 

Billy grunts and Steven’s eyes droop. 

Another smack from the Witcher has him staring up from the table again. 

“If you die, I’ll kill you.” Billy snaps at him. “Carrying on when I told you to be _quiet_.” 

Even as he gasps for air, Steven’s mouth turns up in one corner. A grin, on his deathbed. 

Billy wants to kill him. And wants other things. Things he can’t think about while Steven is _staring_ at him like it’s the last time. Lips parted, begging for air.

“Now I need your arm.” The mage says, her hand outstretched. Billy frowns, but offers his forearm anyway. 

“What for?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Her blade isn’t deep, but it is swift, and Billy grinds his teeth to keep from flinching as she arcs it across his skin without hesitation.

“The blood of a Witcher?” He growls, watching the dark scarlet drip to the bowl beneath it. The liquid smokes and then turns a vivid shade of blue. The mage smiles as she pulls the bowl away. 

“Shrikes are creatures of darkness. They feed on fear and hopelessness. Despair. Open his shirt.” She speaks quietly, stirring the potion with a finger. Ripping the material aside, Billy holds Steven’s gaze as the mage paints a blue design onto his skin. “They kill because it is what they are, destruction and death.” 

“So why would you need a Witcher’s blood?” Billy asks. 

The mage smiles up at him, but doesn’t answer. At least, not in words he _understands_.

She speaks in soft, throaty elven, breathing the incantation instead of chanting. She whispers over Steven’s chest, repeating herself. Once. Twice. 

On the third time, the bard’s eyes close. 

“Hey!” Billy grunts, smacking Steven’s cheek. When his eyes don’t open, panic wells up in Billy’s stomach. 

“He’s resting.” The mage says, catching his hand with her own. “The magic is working. Look.” 

Sure enough, as they watch, the darkness of the bard’s wound lifts, the skin knitting back together cell by cell. Billy stares as the hole in Steven’s chest evaporates before his eyes, disappears as if it were never there. 

When Steven breathes easy, Billy lifts his gaze to the mage. Her smile is kind.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. 

She nods, wiping her hands on her apron. “Interesting challenge, Witcher. I haven’t seen a shrike wound in a century.” Her gaze slips down his figure before she turns, gathers a length of cloth. “Let me see to your arm.” 

“It’s fine.” He mutters, but by the time he speaks she’s already gripping him by the hand to hold his arm straight. 

“No charge.” She adds lightly. “I did put it there after all.” 

“You never did tell me why.” Billy pushes and the mage smiles down at his arm, nods her head. “I’ve never heard of a Witcher’s blood being used in potions.” 

“Witcher blood, no.” She says before releasing him. “But that’s not what the potion required.” 

Billy simply waits, too polite to call the woman on her riddle _bullshit_ and yet too annoyed to play her game. She seems to sense his irritation because she laughs, softly through her nose, and pats his arm. 

“A shrike is the embodiment of death. The cure is that of life.” With a wave of her hand, she walks around the table and starts replacing herbs and vials. “But in magic, the opposite of death is a little less literal. More...romantic.” She looks back at him with a knowing grin and Billy’s heart presses into his throat. Chokes him. 

“I don’t know what—”

“A lover’s kiss breaks most dark enchantments. A lover’s tear can soothe most pain. But blood?” 

Billy can’t help but grip the edge of the table to keep from stumbling over. Or falling flat on his ass.

“The blood of a lover is the strongest cure for darkness.” The mage concludes. “And that is why, dear Witcher, I needed your blood.” 

“But.” Glancing down at Steven, Billy watches him breathe. “He’s—” The color slowly returns to the bard’s face. “We’re not—” 

“It’s rare to see a Witcher traveling with a companion.” The mage says. “Rarer yet that he would hand over his coin so easily for one.” Taking one coin from his pouch, she smiles and tosses the pouch back. The weight is grounding in his open palm. 

“He’s my friend.” Billy admits. Aloud. And the words feel funny on his lips. “But I’m not his lover.” 

“Love isn’t a simple thing, Witcher.” The mage points out. “But the definition of lover is. One who loves.” 

Billy swallows down his rabbiting heart, his eyes hopelessly drawn to Steven’s face. The face of a man who once brought him only irritation and complication. But now? 

Now, he sees the face of the one person in the world he cares for. Entirely. 

“The myths about Witchers really are horse shit, aren’t they?” The mage asks. “That you don’t feel?” 

Billy watches Steven chest rise and fall, his mouth parted as he begins to softly snore. 

“Yeah.” He offers, his chest warm when he meets her gaze. “Yeah, they are.”


End file.
